


talk me down

by harrytomlinson



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M, babygate, i don't know what this is at all i'msorrry jordyn, most of the time harry is louis' baby but sometimes louis is harry's baby, this is one of those times
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-25
Updated: 2015-10-25
Packaged: 2018-04-28 01:09:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5072158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harrytomlinson/pseuds/harrytomlinson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I’ve glued my heart to his, he realizes. I think I’ll love him forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	talk me down

**Author's Note:**

  * For [louisstyles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/louisstyles/gifts).



Two-thirty in the morning is truly the most unforgiving time, Louis has found. It finds him smoking on his hotel balcony in nothing but his pants, hair whipping around furiously in the wind. The orange-red glow of his cigarette, New York City’s nightlife thirty stories below, and his tumultuous thoughts are all that keep him company now. His eyes are heavy and they feel like sandpaper every time he blinks, but his chest is hollow and no matter how hard he tries, he can’t shut off his thoughts. So instead of throwing back some of the sleeping pills in his suitcase, his erratic, mostly stress-induced insomnia decided to make itself present and suddenly he’s outside in almost no clothing with a pack of cigarettes. Even the distant thump of music that reaches him doesn’t garner up much emotion or desire to, at the very least, get hideously drunk and dance until he can’t stand anymore. Not like he would anyway, Harry rather likes staying in bed to watch stupid films, and he finds that he rather likes sticking around with Harry to watch said stupid films. He sighs and stares out at the skyline, which, pretty as it is, looks almost jarring without the stars. _Too much pollution_ , he thinks dully.

 

As he’s reaching for another stick, he hears the soft knock at the room’s door. He doesn’t turn his head to look, merely tilts his head marginally to the side to watch the light from the poorly lit hallway spill into the room briefly before it’s dark again.

 

He doesn’t need to turn to know who it is.

 

The soft padding of boots and the quiet slide of the balcony door meet his ears. “Finally decided to come to bed?” he asks Harry quietly, voice scratchy from disuse.

 

Harry comes to stand beside him, resting his arms on the edge as he looks over the city like a king. In another life, he could probably have lead an entire army into battle without having to look back once to see if they were following. Louis would follow him anywhere, he thinks, and then wonders if Harry knows that. He probably does. That thought warms him a little, eases the tightness in his throat every time he swallows.

 

“S’beautiful.” he drawls slowly instead of answering, but he’s not even looking at the lights.

 

Louis nods, wrapping a cold arm across his stomach. His teeth begin to chatter again and now Harry is openly watching him, face unreadable and tired-looking as Louis feels.

 

They stand like that for a while, and it’s quiet and comfortable enough that it’s just what they both need, really. It’s just them, surrounded by an obsidian sky, the sound of Harry’s clothes rustling as he leans against the wall, and Louis’ soft inhales and exhales as each drag eases the headache behind his eyes. Neither one of them talk about the upcoming events and interviews they’ll all have to endure, or the elephant in the room that is Louis’ impending mental breakdown. No, he’s not quite ready for that, not tonight when everything is so new and still hurts to think about. He knows Harry understands too, because fuck, he always does, doesn’t he? He’s always there, _right there_ , so close but so fucking far away at the same time that Louis wants to curse, wants to smash plates or something, just so he doesn’t feel like he’s the only thing that’s broken and scattered across the floor in pieces. As the thought comes though, he knows he isn’t alone, that he won’t ever be, not while he’s got Harry. Vaguely, he remembers a conversation they’d had, long ago when everything was bright and the good outweighed the bad every day. They were on the bus, playing scrabble until five-thirty while the other boys were sleeping, tucked into their bunks. It was sudden, somewhere in between Louis insisting that a word he’d made up was real and laughing too hard when he’d just received an eyeroll but had his points written down anyway that Harry suddenly says, quiet,

 

“You know, I’ll always be here, right?” And it had been said so seriously that Louis sobered up, the back of his hand wiping a tear out of his eye. “I’ll always be here for you, for whatever you need. You’re my best friend.”

 

Harry had looked so… earnest. His declaration had been odd, sort of out of place in their game of scrabble, but it had made his heart thump pitifully and his stomach flutter. He remembers vividly, because they were still so new to it, to _them_ , _together_. At the time, they were still a shiny thing; they’d blushed too much and averted their eyes whenever they were caught openly staring. _Admiring_ as Harry'd once put it. Louis just remembers blushing. Harry’s face is so round and soft in his favorite memories, eyes holding a determination that should have looked out of place on his young features, but didn’t. It fit him, somehow. Those spontaneously honest moments are the ones Louis likes to look back on when his day is shit and he begins to question himself. They remind him that  _this is real and you love him more than you'll ever realize_. 

 

Right now, Harry’s eyes are just as deep and green, but they feel more weighted as they bore into his own, and God, he’s too young to look so old and tired. Louis wants nothing more than to take Harry and make a run for it, to leave for some remote island where they can wake up and go to sleep with one another every morning, all the time, just wasting the days kissing and eating and sleeping. It’s a far-away fantasy he knows he shouldn’t bother with because he’s living his dream; going places and doing shows in stadiums he’d only seen in footy games on the telly, buying clothes that could have paid two months’ rent for a squat flat in London, meeting people he sang along to on the radio. Now he’s got people that fly hours and hours just to see him perform, he’s got wonderful people singing his songs back to him in stadiums that hold thousands. He reminds himself every time he wishes for something else because this just doesn’t happen to everyone else. That, and he has Harry. As limited as they are to physical contact in public, or on stage, or in interviews for fuck sake, because they’re not even allowed to do that, he has Harry.

 

Looking over to him, Louis can see the weary set of his shoulders even in the dark. He’s got his eyes closed and his head is back, leaning against the wall.

 

“It’s late.” Harry murmurs, eyes remaining shut.

 

Louis nods, finishes his cigarette and gently tugs on his hand, dragging him back to their bed, where he strips back the sheets and arranges the pillows. Here the bed sheets are egyptian cotton, last week they had been silk. He turns to find Harry a few feet behind him, jeans half-unzipped as he rubs his eyes and blinks owlishly, looking strangely small. He’s even only got one of his boots on, the other nowhere to be seen. With a tired crook of his finger and a small smile, Louis beckons him over.

 

Stifling a yawn, his fingers meet the silken fabric of Harry’s shirt, slowly untying his neck scarf before undoing what seem to be an endless amount buttons, each one coming undone to expose smooth, tanned skin. Harry doesn’t move when his shirt is slipped off him, just watches with heavy eyes that say too many things, and so Louis keeps busy instead, peeling off skin-tight jeans and discarding them on the floor.

 

“Bed, love?” he asks quietly, looking up to meet his eyes.

 

“Please.”

 

When they slide onto the bed, Louis turns and pulls Harry up under his chin, fingertips skimming over cooled skin. He can smell Harry’s cologne and his shampoo from where his face is nestled in his hair. Lazily, he bends to press kisses into the nape of Harry’s neck, getting a content hum in response. Underneath the covers, they’re cold where lay pressed against one another, goosebumps still raised where their skin doesn’t touch. Louis buries his face into the space between the pillow and Harry’s shoulder blade with a sigh.

 

“Mm,” Harry mumbles after a few quiet moments, pulling one of Louis’ roaming hands up to his mouth to kiss his knuckles gingerly. “Love you.”

 

“Love you too. And thank you.”

 

Harry turns his head slowly, curls falling onto Louis’ face. “What for?”

 

“Being here.” He leans up and presses a sweet kiss to the underside of Harry’s jaw.

 

“I’ll always be here, Lou. I’ve promised you that.”

 

Louis can feel his heart beat irregularly in his chest, in time to his stuttered intake of breath. “God.” he whispers. Then he tries for a breezy tone, “Sometimes I feel as if I don’t deserve you.”

 

Harry can most definitely hear the wobble in his voice and he turns, dislodging Louis from where he’d been tucked into his back.

 

“Louis,” he says quietly, more alert and eyes shining in the light of the alarm clock on the nightstand. Of course he knows what Louis means. He wouldn’t be Harry if he didn’t. “I love you. I love you, I love you, _I love you_. We’ll be alright. I promise. I'm here.”

 

He knows how small he sounds when he turns his face into the pillow and says, “Really?” He’s not even sure about which one of Harry’s statements he’s asking about, and more than anything, he just wants to be strong right now, because it should be Louis holding Harry, promising things he knows he shouldn’t, holding him, reminding him that he’s not alone. After all, this is technically his mess, this ridiculous, heaping pile of seemingly endless shitty rumours and yet another fucking stunt just to top it off. _He must either be some sort of masochist or he really loves me_. Louis marvels at the thought that maybe, just maybe, this boy (because Louis still has trouble thinking of him as any older than a pink-cheeked, bright eyed, seventeen year old) could possibly love Louis as much as he loves him. It’s a concept he regularly has difficulty accepting, and he doesn’t always mind being told again.

 

“Of course. I want to be next to you, no matter what and no matter where, always.”

 

He swallows down the wretched lump in his throat. “Always is a long time.”

 

“We’ve got quite a long time, haven’t we?.”

 

Louis pulls himself up onto an elbow, and he can't quite meet Harry's eyes, “You don’t deserve this. You deserve freedom,  happiness and you deserve to be able to hold your partner’s hand in public at the very _least_ , for God’s sake.”

 

There’s a hard glint to Harry’s eye when he finally looks up, “And you don’t?”

 

“I’m just saying that you don’t.”

 

“Louis,” Harry huffs, frustratedly running a hand through his hair. “If anyone here doesn’t deserve this, it’s you. I love you, _so much_ , and you don’t know how much it kills me to have to watch you go through this. I can’t even defend you, Lou, so even if the only way I can offer any sort of support or comfort for you is at three in the morning, when I’m exhausted and we’re to be awake in three and a half hours, I’ll do it, for however long it takes for you to feel okay. ‘Cause I want _you_. I’d wait for the rest of my life if it meant that at some point I could hold your hand walking down the street. I’ve been waiting since I was sixteen, what’s a few more years?” A wry, crooked smile, and then, “I’m not afraid of old age if I’ve got you.”

 

He lets out a long, uneven breath, tension bleeding out of him as Harry’s words settle around him, like dust after a tornado. They’ve had these kinds of talks before, the ones that go long into the early hours. Sometimes they talk lightheartedly about themselves and their lives, and sometimes they don’t talk at all. This kind of conversation, though, the kind where they talk about the things they don’t want to talk about most, which more often than not involve Modest, are rare. They’re rare and they’re terrifying because at the end of them, when it’s quiet and they’re falling asleep, tangled together, it always begs questions of their future: who will we be? What will happen to us?

 

Louis always likes to think of him and Harry, old and weathered together. He never bothers to think about where they’ll be in ten, twenty, fifty years — he doesn’t much care — as long as he’s got Harry’s eyes and his toothy smile on him, he knows he can handle anything else.

 

There aren’t any words that Louis can think of to completely convey the expansive and complex range of thoughts and feelings running through him, or the gratitude at having someone like Harry around, but the warmth that’s been curling in his chest spreads to his toes and the constant mantra of _lovelovelove_ and _mineminemine_ plays repeatedly in his head, and suddenly it’s easier to breathe. With Harry’s hand running up and down his spine, and Harry’s mouth on the top of his head giving a gentle kiss, he feels like they’ll be okay. Tomorrow will come and they’ll be okay. Whatever comes their way, they’ll be okay.

  
_I’ve glued my heart to his_ , he realizes. _I think I’ll love him forever._

**Author's Note:**

> you can thank troye sivan's 'talk me down' for this. this is the product of having this song on repeat. anyways, i do not own one direction (sadly) i just like writing about them. 
> 
> un-beta'd, so all mistakes are my own. enjoy (hopefully) !
> 
> find me on tumblr @ramimalek and twitter @boolondon :)


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